Author's Note: Thank you so much for the wonderful response to Chapter 8; it was an emotional one to write, and since I had Cinna volunteer instead of being chosen by the captain, that kind of made it worse. I have to say an immense thank you to Kismet for her absolutely beautiful fan art for this story, celebrating her love for Cinna in this story. I am humbled, and as soon as I figure out how to get that lovely banner here, I will post it.

As always thank you for your continued support, your thoughtful reviews, your follows and your favorites.

Jeeno and RynMar...you guys know I'm nothing without you. I appreciate you both more than you know.


I do not join the men for supper later that night, though my stomach rumbles like distant thunder. The ache in my heart is greater than that in my belly. I remain in my cabin, alone, penning my thoughts in my journal, desperate to clear my cluttered mind and purge my guilty soul. I write until my candle gasps its last breath and sputters out.

As I am slipping into my nightclothes later that evening, a curious idea kindles in my brain. It nags at me for the better part of the next hour before I fall into a restless sleep, tossing and turning, unable to quell the thought, waking every half-hour or so.

When I awaken fully early that morning, my mind is made up. This is my chance at salvation.

Jumping off my pallet, my pacing is frantic. Can I really manage this?

I slip out of my nightshift, the cotton and lace gown pooling at my feet. Though the air in my cabin is stifling and warm, my bare breasts still react to their sudden nakedness, and I feel my nipples stiffen into tight buds.

I have never stopped to give much pause to my body. I am not immune to the womanly curves that have begun to take shape, though compared to most other girls at Panem, I know I am slight and not as rounded. I cup my breasts, testing their weight in my palms. They are modest without the benefit of my corset. I hope they will swell more before I am fully a lady.

I cross the tiny room and open the top drawer of the bulwark chest. There they are.

The garments Cinna made for me.

Gnawing my bottom lip anxiously, I tug the canvas trousers on over my linen drawers. To my horror, the pants stop just below my knee, the legs of my underclothes protruding past them. I must look ridiculous. I momentarily consider pulling on my stockings, but I know the idea that I am entertaining requires bare feet. If I am to actually go through with this scheme, I will have to eventually have to shear the lower half of my pantaloons. My cheeks burn as I accept the reality that for the time being, there can be nothing between my modesty and the rough canvas. I quickly strip my drawers and redress, the coarse fabric completely foreign against my exposed legs. The freedom I feel is oddly thrilling and a rush of excitement surges through my veins at my next thought.

Do I dare wear the shirt without my corset?

I pull the blouse over my head. The cotton settles against me, cool on my flushed skin, and my nipples graze the material lightly. I am shocked at the comfort I feel wearing these forbidden clothes. I dance a little jig, dissolving into a fit of giggles as my bare toes flit across the wood. There is nothing binding me, restricting me, pinching me.

And it feels like heaven.

My giddiness abruptly gives way to nervousness as I remember why I am wearing the garments in the first place.

Can I really do this? I ask myself again.

I pace nervously, steeling my nerves and attempting to muster enough courage to approach Abernathy. I need to prove myself to the crew, to honor Cinna's memory by making him proud. I need to cement my loyalty and cleanse my soul. This is the only way to gain any redemption in their eyes.

Steerage is dark as I prowl though the blackness, hoping I will find Abernathy on deck. I lost track of the men's watches in the chaos of the last twenty-four hours, so I cannot be sure it is his watch that is on duty.

I also cannot explain why I feel the overwhelming urge to appeal to the churlish sailor. Perhaps it is his unofficial role as the "leader" of the rest of the crew; it's as if to capture his trust is to become infinitely more honorable to the rest of the lot.

The first fingers of dawn are clawing at the eastern sky when I reach the deck. I hover beyond the same barrels that shielded me yesterday and scan the rigging. In the purpling sky I spy the bulky outline of a man's frame. It's Cato.

This is not Abernathy's watch. Defeated, I crouch behind the barrels, contemplating my next move.

I will have to appeal to Abernathy in the forecastle.

Drawing up my courage once more, I scurry back down into steerage and nearly scream when I plow into a body. Instinctively, I swing my arms out.

"Miss Everdeen, stop!" the body's owner hisses. Fingers grip my skin where my shirt ends, just below my elbows, and heart thumping, I meet the eyes of Mellark. His gaze shifts and sweeps over me critically, astonishment widening his blue eyes considerably.

"What are you wearing?" he falters, glancing down to my chest then quickly looking away. Pink visibly tints his cheeks, even in the dimly-lit space.

"Cinna made them for me," I whisper, suddenly hyper-aware of how little clothing I am wearing and at what close proximity my body is to Mellark's. I have to remember to breathe, and for some reason, I moisten my lower lip with the tip of my tongue. "He gave them to me a few days ago."

"Why are you dressed like that?" His voice is tight, strangled, and he looks only directly into my eyes now. I clear my throat and swallow.

"I volunteer," I say as loudly as I can manage, mimicking his words and Cinna's, hoping I sound sincere.

"What?" Those blue eyes widen even more, clouded in confusion.

"I wish to join the crew."

Mellark steps away from me, his face frozen. His chiseled jaw hangs slack, mouth agape as he unsuccessfully tries to form words.

"You…what?" he finally manages to squeak. I thrust my chin up and set my own jaw.

"I wish to join the crew," I repeat emphatically. His gaze skims over me again, more critical than curious this time, and he shakes his head incredulously.

"I heard you," he stammers. "I just…cannot believe it. Why?"

I begin to explain to him my moral dilemma. He listens with an attentive ear, his expression decidedly neutral, and I am grateful for his mute objectivity while I make my impassioned plea.

I explain to him how indebted I feel to the crew for spoiling their chance at justice, however perverted it may have been to seize it for themselves. How horribly guilty I feel, the blood of two men, albeit indirectly, staining my hands. How dreadfully sorry I am for not heeding their repeated warnings. My confession pours forth from me like a dam bursting at its seams.

"I don't know, Miss Everdeen," Mellark sighs when I have exhausted myself. He threads his fingers through his blond hair, tousling the curls more. I have a sudden impulse to reach out and do the same, feel his golden locks between my fingertips. I shake off the distraction and focus my attention on my proposal again.

"I can do it," I insist. "You must believe me!"

He laughs quietly. "I am not questioning whether or not you can do it, although I don't think you realize just what you are getting yourself into should you go through with this." He pauses and regards me deliberately. "And I do believe you," he continues gently. "I believe you are sincerely repentant and you want to help us. What I don't know is how the others will receive you."

"Does your opinion not matter?"

"I cannot say," he replies truthfully. "I am the youngest of the crew and the least experienced. The others have been sailing much longer than I."

"I intended to plead my case to Mr. Abernathy," I admit. "I just ran into you first."

"Literally," he smiles. I duck my head shyly.

"Please, Mr. Mellark."

"Peeta," he corrects me, those hypnotic eyes trapping mine. "If we are to be equals on this ship, now, Miss Everdeen, you'll need to stop with all the "mister" nonsense. So please, call me Peeta."

"Peeta." I let the name roll from my tongue, tasting it on my lips. It is so easy to say. Peeta. Peeta. Peeta, my heart chants, mocking me.

He flashes me a sheepish grin. "You're not going to ask me about it? Everyone does."

"I am not everyone, Peeta," I counter softly. He stares at me, our eyes locked in a stalemate.

"We are getting ahead of ourselves," he declares abruptly, gripping my right hand tightly in his. Tiny sparks of electricity pulsate up my arm at his touch. I look up at him eagerly, but his visage has altered and his eyes are serious.

"I do not get to make this decision alone, Miss Everdeen. You will need to appeal to the rest of the crew. You'll need to convince them."

"Then let us not waste any more time."

He leads me through steerage, silent as we approach the forecastle. He explains that I will only be able to address the three men off-duty and I will probably need to wait to caucus the rest when the watches change later in the morning.

I know that it is Abernathy's watch that is off-duty, though I do not know which of the four men on that watch has pulled a double to complete the first watch. I silently say a prayer that it is Marvel; I am hopeful that my forged connections with Odair and to a lesser extent, Brutus, will aid them to accept me. (Though I am nervous Brutus will hold my betrayal against me; after all, I did single him out to the captain when revealing the location of the pistol.)

My prayers fall on deaf ears when Peeta raps faintly on the door to signal our arrival and Marvel is the first sailor I see when it swings open.

"What the fuck is she doing here?" he snarls angrily, jerking his thumb in my direction. I fight the urge to shrink behind Peeta, willing myself to be strong. I cannot show any weakness.

"Miss Everdeen wishes to speak to you. All of you," Peeta announces, squeezing my hand fiercely before releasing it.

"Katniss, actually. You can call me Katniss," I murmur, taking a cue from Peeta's earlier declaration.

He retreats to the threshold of the doorway, leaving me in the center of the room. It is as filthy as I remember it and twice as odorous. Abernathy's glare finds me from under hooded eyes and disheveled bangs as he swings his legs over the edge of his hammock. From his own hammock, Brutus rises and folds his arms across his chest, towering over me like a giant. Nerves singing, butterflies dancing through my stomach, my throat goes dry as paper.

I repeat the exact proposition that I uttered to Peeta not fifteen minutes ago. I speak too fast, I know, the words tumbling from my mouth at an alarming speed in my haste not to lose my bravado. The three men stare back at me, silent, none revealing a shred of visible emotion.

"Please, you must believe I am sincere. I want to help. Let me be the replacement for Mr. Gloss," I conclude emphatically. I exhale and wait, my nerves strung as tight as a bow.

"You're a girl," Brutus states dully.

"A spoiled rotten girl," Marvel adds snidely. "I bet you haven't lifted one of them pretty fingers of yours a day in your life."

"I can learn! I will learn!" I shout. "I am not afraid."

"This isn't a goddamned school," Abernathy snaps. "This is the real world, sweetheart, and no one here has the time or the energy to waste teaching you."

"I am a fast learner. All my teachers have said so."

"She'll be more trouble than she's worth," Marvel warns, addressing the others as if I am not standing a mere five or six feet from him. "I'm not in favor of this at all."

"Nor am I," Brutus adds roughly. I crane my neck behind me, searching Peeta's kind eyes to buoy me. They meet mine, wide and expressive. He cautioned me of exactly this response.

"I can prove myself to you," I continue, not willing to concede yet. "I will do anything!"

"Anything?" Marvel taunts, his reptilian eyes preying on my chest. Instinctively, I cross my arms across my breasts, shielding them from his gawking.

"Say we do take you on. The captain. What'll he say?" Abernathy challenges.

"I do not care what he says! I came to you, not him! Does that not count for something?" I plea. "He shall probably be glad to see me toil and sweat. And I'm not afraid of him." That last part is not entirely true; I have every reason to fear the man. I cannot fathom how he will react to my shocking reversal of station if the crew does accept me.

Abernathy chortles, his breath raspy as he laughs. "You have seen how manipulative he can be. As soon as we bring you aboard, he'll want you back and a dangerous game will be afoot."

"I wouldn't go back to him if he begged me! And I'm not afraid of him!" I repeat, my frustration rising.

The men pepper me with reason after reason why they are against my signing on. I meet each and every one with defiant rebuttals as to why I deserve the chance to prove myself.

"This isn't a test, Miss Everdeen-" Brutus counters.

"Katniss!" I insist, interrupting him. "Sorry," I add quickly, quieting my tongue.

"You don't get to try it out and when things go badly and your back aches and your palms blister and your body cannot move from sheer exhaustion…you don't get to take it all back and return to your little cabin," he finishes.

"You sign on, it's until we pull into port," Marvel agrees. The two exchange a pointed look, then both shift their eyes towards Abernathy.

"A test," he coughs, his steely gaze fixed on me like a lion stalking its prey. A shiver runs down my spine and apprehension washes over me.

Abernathy vaults to his feet and stands before me.

"Here's what I think, sweetheart. I think your pretty little mind has conjured up this ridiculous idea to make yourself feel better about all that went wrong yesterday. You're persistent, I'll give ya that, but I don't think you have a fucking clue what being a member of this crew really entails. When you first told me you wanted to help yesterday, I asked ya if you could do any of the tasks we are charged with completing on this ship. And what did you answer to each one?"

"That no," I reply meekly, "I could not."

"You said you're willing to toil and sweat, but are you prepared to blister and bleed? To have your body so wracked with pain after the first few days that you will wish for death because at least that will make the aches go away?"

"Yes," I whisper uncertainly. His threats are inciting a panic in me. What am I doing?

"So I propose a test, sweetheart. You pass it, you convince me, and I'll be your loudest champion. I'll see you a part of this crew and let you sign your name to articles. I'll make sure none of the other men on this ship blocks your signing and I'll see to it they treat you as an equal. No more, but no less either."

"What is the test?" My pulse throbs in my veins, and it feels as if my heart is going to burst through my rib cage, so wildly is it pounding against the bones.

"One climb to the royal yard and back down again. You make it, you sign on and you're one of us. For better or worse."

A lump the size of a grapefruit lodges itself in my throat, and I swallow several times to push it down. The royal yard is the highest sail on the main mast. It must be at least one hundred and forty or fifty feet up, and I cannot fathom how the sailors reach it so swiftly and so frequently. A sailor on watch could make the climb as many as fifty times a day. The thought churns my stomach violently.

"You don't have to do it, Miss Everdeen," Peeta leans forward, his breath tickling the shell of my ear. "Your determination is admirable though." It sends a pleasant shudder through me and the small compliment spurs my courage.

"What say you, sweetheart?"

I draw myself to my fullest stature and square my shoulders. "Let's go."

My limbs feel like melted butter as I follow the men onto the deck. The walk feels much like that of a prisoner being led to the executioner's block. We assemble below the main mast, and as I crane my neck to get a clear view of the royal yard, my stomach tethers itself into an unyielding knot. It has never seemed as high as it does now. What have I done?

"You've got two choices, sweetheart." Abernathy clears his throat. "You can shimmy up the mast itself or you can use the ratlines as a makeshift ladder and climb up the shrouds. Neither is an easy task for a novice sailor, let alone an inexperienced girl."

"I shall do my best," I whisper, my nerves fraying with each passing second.

To my horror, the other watch migrates over to where we are assembled. I will be scrutinized, mocked perhaps, by the entire complement of the crew. Cato and Marvel jostle each other and sneer at me contemptuously.

"You have no choice but to do your best," Abernathy continues. "There is no room for failure in climbing, sweetheart. Because if you do-fall, that is-you can pray for a soft fall."

"A soft fall?" I echo dumbly.

"Aye. Into the sea, where you'll have a better chance of drowning quickly and mercifully."

"And if I don't?" I brace myself for the inevitable ghastly response.

"You'll crash to the deck and break your neck."

"My neck?" I stammer.

"Instant death," Cato interjects coldly, malevolence glinting wickedly in his eye.

"Still prepared to do this?" Abernathy wonders.

I am not. My heart has forgotten how to beat and my legs have gone completely numb. I scan the crowd of men quickly, greeted by a multitude of emotions playing on their faces. Odair gives me an encouraging nod, and Peeta locks those brilliant eyes on mine, fueling me with confidence.

"Yes," I tremble.

"Then you best get going before the captain comes out of his cabin. Which way will ya climb, sweetheart?"

I stare up awestruck at the massive girth of wood. It is essentially three felled-trees fastened together, and even with my arms fully extended to their widest span, they barely cover half of the center length. There is no possible way I can shimmy, as Abernathy suggested. The ratlines are my only hope.

A tug on my arm draws me back flush against Peeta. I am too numb to enjoy the delicious quiver that overtakes me as our bodies make contact, my back on his chest.

"Choose your path carefully. Only one set of rigging will go straight to the top. Otherwise, you'll have to walk along the trestletrees to ascend each new set of rigging."

"Okay," I murmur uncertainly. .

"Take your time," he breathes quietly into my ear. "Rest if need be. You've got three chances at each of the yards on the way up."

"Okay." I glance up again, making note of the main yard, topsail and topgallant yards that precede the crowning royal yard. They were probably set thirty or forty feet apart from each other.

"And Miss Everdeen?"

I twist myself slightly to meet those eyes.

"Don't look down," he murmurs, winking at me before stepping back into place among his brethren. I inhale, flooding my lungs with as much stagnant oxygen as I can. I immediately regret it, the humid air searing me with each subsequent breath. I cough lightly to expel phlegm and my heart thuds dully.

"It's now or never, sweetheart." Abernathy fixes me in place with iron eyes, and I nod absently.

Approaching the railing, my mind races a mile a minute, thoughts tumbling fast and furious, though none slowing long enough for me to contemplate them. My legs are leaden and each step feels like wading through cement. As I reach for the lowest deadeye, the men begin to call out to me.

"God be with you, Miss Everdeen." Chaff, I think.

"Don't look down." Odair, reaffirming Peeta's advice. "'Er up!" he adds.

"She'll never make it to the main yard." Cato. Vicious cackling follows.

"You can do this, Miss Everdeen!" Peeta.

I had perched on the railing several times before, courtesy of Odair teaching me how to haul myself up using the deadeyes. So I haul myself onto the rail with facility. The simple action bolstered my self-esteem. I take one final glance down at the crew, steel my nerves, say a quick prayer (though I have never been good at praying) and begin my climb.

The ratlines are indeed like ascending a giant ladder so I pause to process Peeta's advice. Indeed, I can see one column of ratlines leading directly up to the royal yard. Heart pounding, pulse racing, I draw a breath and extend my left leg up to clutch the rope with my curled toes. It is a greater stretch than I had imagined, and thus, my arms must exert as much effort as my thighs to haul myself up with each step.

I climb hand over hand until I reach the main yard, where I pause to catch my breath and snatch a quick glance down. The entire crew stands like statues, every eye fixed on me. A quick glance up momentarily disorients me, so alike are the listless gray sails and the swollen sky. I shift my eyes out to the sea to regain my bearings. And I continue on.

My fingers and toes begin to cramp around the time I reach the topsail. I slump against the mast, chest heaving, muscles screaming. My body no longer feels like it belongs to me. I make the mistake of darting my eyes downward, and my stomach heaves violently as the ship pitches and rolls. At least I can be thankful for the lack of wind. The ship is swaying enough at this height without the added struggle of blustery gusts at my back.

"What are you waiting for?"

Cato. His mocking tone ignites a fire in my veins, and with renewed determination, I grab for the next set of ratlines and scale them, ignoring the searing pain radiating through my palms and the stabbing twinges along the length of my shins. I scramble up as fast as my rubbery limbs will take me until I am at the topgallant spar. My heart beats wildly, a frantic waltz of exhilaration and terror at the final ascent. I lock my eyes on the royal yard, twenty-five or thirty feet above me. This is it. I can do this.

It is at that moment The Mockingjay finally finds wind. It is a slight one at that, but the irony is not lost on me. Sails begin to puff out, billowing in the gentle breeze, snapping and filling, snapping and filling. Trembling with exhaustion, I grip the ratline and heave myself upward. The ship's swaying increases, and at my height, its metronome motion threatens to toss me into the sea with even the tiniest of errors on my part. One slip of a finger. One missed foot on a line.

My braid whips wildly into my face, flicking at me like the lash of a cat's tail. I sputter and inhale a mouthful of hair. Nausea swells in the pit of my stomach as with each subsequent step, the ship tosses me, like a fish caught in a net desperate to free itself.

I will not let go.

Swallowing a tide of bile, I clench my eyes shut to avoid further vertigo. I am almost there.

Several more feet.

A few inches.

Almost there.

My fingers quake fiercely as I force my gelatinous arm to reach up and touch the spar of the royal yard.

There. I did it.

My heart swells with pride, beating wildly, my breaths coming in greedy gasps.

But there is little time to revel in my accomplishment. In reality, my test is only half over.

I still have to climb down.

Peeta told me to take my time, but I estimate it has already taken me thirty minutes to ascend (the real sailors need but two to three minutes!) and I want nothing more than to end this torture. I suck in a shallow breath and wrap my aching fingers around the ratline.

My deadened toes grope for the ratlines beneath me, and to my horror, they flail through the air, desperately searching for the thin rope.

It is infinitely more difficult going down than it was getting to the top, and the sickening reality is a punch to my churning gut. At least climbing up I could see the path above me. The descent is blind. I cannot see each step below me, and when I do attempt a glimpse, the sight of the rolling, slate-sea swirling against the veering horizon causes such a sense of disorientation in me that I am forced to screw my eyes shut.

Hand over feet I inch my way down, slowly, painstakingly so, to avoid becoming entangled in the sails that continue to snap and fill around me. I do not even pause at the topgallant spar, willing myself to press on and finish.

But I should have paused to get my bearings. Because it is there that I fall.

I do not do anything differently than I have done the first eighty or so feet down. It is simply a misstep; when my foot seeks out the next ratline, I miss it entirely and my foot plunges to the one below it. The gap is too great, and the momentum hurls my body backward. An ear-piercing scream shatters the stagnant air, and it is only seconds later that I am suspended, swinging through space, that I realize the shriek came from me. A tremendous pressure presses on my skull as the blood rushes to my head, being the lowest point of my body in this precarious position.

My limbs and the lines are so hopelessly tangled that I am in no imminent danger of plunging to my death. There would simply be no way for me to fall so knotted am I. Tensing the muscles of my stomach, I use my meager upper body strength in an attempt to garner momentum. I grope frantically for anything to grab hold of, to hoist myself upward. Nothing. The ship plunges, and I bite back another scream. As frustrated and as terrified as I am in the moment, I will not let on that I am in danger. The crew will not hear my distress.

But as the ship dips, it propels me forward (backward, technically, but I am facing the mast in my suspended state) enough that my desperate fingers clutch and clasp a dangling rope. The hemp strands rub my hands raw as I use it to lever my body up and extricate myself from the rigging. I cling to the makeshift ladder and will back the tears that want so desperately to fall. My body trembles from its efforts.

I may live to pass this test now, but to do this fifty times in the course of a day? How can I? What was I thinking?

Once I have regained my senses and my breathing returns to its previous rate, I resume the downward climb. I pass the mainyard and emerge from the bed of sails, finally able to open my eyes and glance down.

The crew remains in the same places they were when I began some fifty minutes or so earlier, and upon sighting me, several of them call out words of encouragement and cheers. Their praise lifts my spirits and stimulates my fatigued body to clamor down faster.

When my feet finally make contact with the rail, Odair sprints towards me, arms outstretched.

"Jump, lassie!" he urges, his grin so wide that his dimples are valleys on either side of his mouth.

"I'll do it all on my own, Mr. Odair," I reply proudly, leapingdown from the railing to tumble into a careless heap onto the deck, a mass of wilted limbs and tired bones.

The crew, most of them, erupt into raucous applause and thunderous shouts. Peeta pushes through the throng of men to reach out his hand and guide me to my feet. I stagger under my own weight, and he throws his arms around me in a crushing embrace. I am so overjoyed, so relieved that I do not even question his impulsive gesture. I give in to the incredible feeling of his strong arms enveloping me, and I rest my weary head on his shoulder.

I do not have time to linger in Peeta's arms because I am seized by Odair, who whirls me through the air, laughing giddily as he swings me in circles.

"Ye did it, lassie!" He sets me back down on wobbly legs, and I search the rest of the men's faces for their reactions.

Cato and Marvel glower at me, neither offering any sort of felicitations in my direction. But Chaff, Brutus and even Mr. Thread all smile warmly, their weathered faces kind and their eyes shining with approval.

But it is Abernathy who surprises me most. His granite eyes soften and crinkle, lips curving into a slight smile. He nods at me.

"Well done, sweetheart. Welcome aboard." He extends his left hand, and I shake it hesitantly at first. His grip is firm, and he pumps my hand vigorously.

"What is the meaning of this?"

The cold voice at my back chills the blood in my veins and further liquefies my limbs.

I turn.

Captain Snow stands before me.


A/N:It should be noted that the test Haymitch gives Katniss is the same test the girl in the novel faces. (She also begs the captain for forgiveness first. No way Katniss was doing that!) I wrote two different alternate tests, but none of them had the same danger quotient, and thus, the climb seemed to be the only viable test the sailors would have accepted. That said, I condensed it immensely from the novel, as the sailing terms really are overwhelming without the diagram!

What do you say we start working towards that M rating in Chapter 10? Yes?

Thanks for reading. :)